


They Move On Tracks of Never-Ending Light

by Elpie (Horribibble)



Series: Bullen Week Prompts [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anxiety, Bullen Week, Canon-Typical Violence, Confident Cullen Rutherford, Dom Cullen Rutherford, Dragon Age Quest: Demands of the Qun, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Kink Negotiation, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Sub Iron Bull, Tal-Vashoth Iron Bull
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-23
Updated: 2015-11-23
Packaged: 2018-05-03 02:19:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5272883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Horribibble/pseuds/Elpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He looks at Bull from the corner of his eye, studying him again, though this time his gaze is easier. Sympathetic. <br/>Cullen thinks that he understands something, though Bull can’t be sure what. </p>
<p>“Commander.” He rumbles.</p>
<p>“Bull,” The man answers. “Be here, now.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	They Move On Tracks of Never-Ending Light

**Author's Note:**

> Bullen Week Prompt #1: Kink Negotiation
> 
> I'm not great at writing kink negotiation, but I discussed it at length with EarlGreyer and realized after a bit that I wanted to try something I hadn't quite seen before. I hope you enjoy it. 
> 
> The title is a song by This Will Destroy You. I listened to a number of wonderful songs while writing this. I'll share a playlist at the bottom.

_"It's like being a block of stone with a sculptor working on you. One day, the last of the crap gets knocked off, and you can see your real shape, what you're supposed to be."_ \- The Iron Bull

-

Bull opens his eye and wishes he hadn’t. The feeling in the pit of his stomach hasn’t gone away. But it’s another day of bashing in skulls and kicking ass in the name of something greater than himself, be it coin or the common good, and at least that gets him out of his head.

At the same time, that’s exactly what he’s worried about.

His boys are alive, and that steadies him as he rises, but that crutch can only do so much on uneven terrain. Nothing is certain anymore. Nothing makes sense.

So he throws himself into the fighting, he swings his massive axe and cuts and cuts and cuts and feels the warm splatter of blood against his skin.

And even then, he continues through the splintering of bone, the wet sucking sound of undignified mortality.

He cuts and cuts and

-

“Bull!” Cullen’s voice is firm and rich with command, and Bull stops.

The practice dummy is a useless pile of sawdust, and his throat is empty, raw. He wonders if he has been screaming, or just tightening the muscle there. It seems likely, considering the thrumming _burn_ that spans his body.

He has no memory of any of it, but the recruits hovering about the training grounds look decidedly uncomfortable. He takes a deep breath, listens to the whistling sound the air makes, and turns to face the commander.

Cullen studies him the way he would any one of the troops, and for once Bull cannot seem to read the man. But inside of this gaze, Bull exists. He is something to be examined, analyzed, put to better purpose.

_Yes_ , he thinks. _I am here. As you see fit. I am here._

But Cullen assigns him no task. Cullen asks him no questions. He says, “As you were.”

And Bull thinks, _I wasn’t._

-

As far as physical locations go, the tavern is a safe place. The air is warm, both from the fire and the packed bodies, laughing and talking and singing in intervals, fueled by alcohol and memories, for better or worse.

There has always been a before, and there will be an after.

Unless the world ends, in which case…

Bull rises from his seat with an audible groan, laughing when Krem protests at being used for a leverage point. He passes a hand through his second’s soft, cropped hair and thinks, _This is real. This is purpose._

He goes to the bar with a smile still lingering at his lips, pausing only briefly when he spots Cullen perched at the countertop, palms cupped around his own tankard of ale.

He looks at Bull from the corner of his eye, studying him again, though this time his gaze is easier. Sympathetic. Cullen thinks that he understands something, though Bull can’t be sure what.

“Commander.” He rumbles.

“Bull,” The man answers. “Be here, now.”

Bull doesn’t understand _how_ or _why_ , but the note of certainty banishes a tightness from his shoulders he didn’t realize they’d been carrying.

Cabot pushes his refilled tankard across the wood, and Bull retreats back to his people. Still, every now and then, his eye wanders to the line of Cullen’s back.

His stomach settles and warms, but it could be the alcohol.  

-

Bull seeks Cullen out soon enough, weary and emptied out after another excursion with the Inquisitor. His skin feels tight and worn, but his knuckles sting as they rap lightly at the Commander’s door.

He hears the call to enter and obeys, shutting the door behind himself. The room is warmly lit and spacious, and Bull feels suddenly small. It’s not a sensation he enjoys.

The Commander stands up, one gloved hand planted against the table as he cants his head, ready to listen.

“How can I help you, Bull?”

Bull has a few ideas, all of them sneakily plucking at the edges of his better judgement. “How did you know?” He asks instead.

“Know what?”

“That something was wrong with me. Last night.”

The friendly smile seems to melt off of Cullen’s face, but his eyes remain soft, almost tired. “Our past experiences don’t just go away, Bull. I saw in you the same thing I always see, but under pressure.”

“And how’d you know what to say to stop it?”

_That_ gives Cullen pause, though he seems pleased after a moment. “I didn’t. I saw what was happening, and I gave you what I could.”

“Purpose.”

“Reassurance,” Cullen corrects. “I reminded you that you are a person, not a thing.”

Bull shifts, his brace making an almost deafening noise in the quiet. “Sounds like you’ve got some experience there.”

“It does, doesn’t it?”

The Commander’s new smile is almost as strange as it is empty.

Bull thanks him anyway.

-

The next time Cullen turns up in the Herald’s rest, Bull takes the seat beside his. The boys can mind themselves for a bit. Especially with the tightness reading loud and clear in the movement of the commander’s head and arms.

Bull wonders what would happen if he reached out and applied pressure.

Instead, he sits beside the man, smiling just slightly. “Buy you a drink, Commander?”

“I wouldn’t argue.”

Bull motions for Cabot to bring them both something strong, and turns back to regard his companion. “All right, I know that look. Usually that’s _my_ look. Did you want to talk about it?”

“Not really.” Cullen says, but his lips turn up at the corners, and his posture opens up a bit more. “Though I suppose I should.”

“It’s not a weakness, to need help.”

“No. It isn’t.”

“So…”

“Sometimes it’s better than others. I can distract myself, but even that can be a burden. Beyond my control, the world continues spinning. And when I try to catch it, it burns my fingers. No one will ever tell me why.”

“Maybe pick something smaller to start with.”

Cullen laughs, and it’s only partially bitter. Only tinted, like the shadows at the corner of their sight. “It’s difficult, but being here...it helps.”

“Alcohol can help with a lot of things, but it’s not a permanent solution.”

“Not what I meant, and you know it.”

“You need to be in control. Being here gives you that, even if it stresses you out. I get that.”

“Do you?”

Something in Cullen’s eye catches his attention, and Bull resists the urge to growl.

“You hear them screaming, don’t you? The men aboard the dreadnaught.”

“I’ve heard plenty of screaming in my time.”

“But none of it represented what they did. You had the Qun before. It plagues your dreams.”

“Qunari don’t dream, Cullen.”

“Everyone dreams, Bull. We just don’t all call it the same thing.”

“If you say so.”

Cullen’s eyes are cutting in their focus. Bull feels raw, open in a way that he is used to inducing in others. Never himself. He is an object, a tool, now without a master or purpose. “I do.” Cullen says.

Bull shivers.

-

Cullen becomes a more common sight at the Herald’s Rest, even if he doesn’t often engage with the other patrons. He sits at the bar, tankard between his palms, shoulders sloped forward.

When Bull comes to sit with him, he shifts, body aligning itself to his. If Bull were a smaller man--or, for argument’s sake, a woman--the stance would be more obvious. Cullen’s posture is protective.

Their talks have become frequent, Bull melting into the confident timbre of Cullen’s words. Cullen does not know if they will succeed, or if the sky will come crashing down on their heads. He has no idea how to stop the madness that Bull has been conditioned from childhood to expect at any moment.

But he knows what Bull is feeling, and what he needs. He speaks to him about purpose, about distraction, about what it means to be powerful and have nothing to do with that power. He speaks about what it means to be afraid, and what it means to move anyway.

He teaches Bull, in increments, that his need is legitimate, and that it can be met.

-

“ _Enough_!”

His vision is red at the edges when he feels Cullen’s hand on his arm. For a moment, his whole body tenses, and then he realizes who it is that has halted his momentum.

“Well done.” Cullen says, _You can stop now._

-

“The terrifying thing about becoming an individual after so long as part of a whole is acknowledging that you are _small_.”

“It’s a common fear,” Bull nods. “Being alone.”

“No, not alone, just small. Singular. You become responsible for yourself. A self that you might not have known existed. You realize that you have hopes, dreams, desires that weren’t there before.”

Like this.

-

Bull becomes accustomed to Cullen’s palms and fingers, sword-calloused and rough, but sure. He claps Bull on the back, grins up at him with that boyish curve to his mouth.

Bull becomes accustomed to the burr of Cullen’s voice as he issues commands and reaffirms the things he does not know, but _wills_ to be true.  

Bull becomes accustomed to wanting all of these things.

And so he tells Cullen what he wants.

-

“It’s a reasonable arrangement. You need to be in control, and I want to serve a purpose. I need to _be_ controlled, and I trust you.”

“That’s not enough, Bull.”

“Doesn’t hurt that you’re hot as hell.”

Cullen grins. “That’s reassuring.”

“Long as we’re on the same page.”

-

“I will never take advantage of your dependence on me. I will always stop as soon as the watchword leaves your mouth. I do not _want you_ to give me anything you are incapable of giving, is that understood?”

“Yes.” Bull says. _Yes._

“If you say the watchword, this all stops, and we discuss it. Is _that_ understood?”

“I’m familiar with the concept.”

“It never hurts to be sure. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“What if I want to be hurt?” He jokes.

“That’s not why you came to me, Bull. You’re already hurt enough.” Cullen’s palm is bare on his shoulder, warm and rough and full of promise.

Like this.

Like the world.

-

“I do not need you, but I _want_ you. Say it.”

“I want you.”

“But?”

“Need you, too.”

“You don’t.”

“ _Fuck_ , I do. I do. Believe me, I fuckin’ do.”

Cullen laughs against his shoulder, and his thrusts become harsher, faster. His teeth pull against Bull’s lips, and he groans into the Commander’s open mouth. Like this, he is contained, controlled, but still himself.

More himself than he thought he ever could be.

Cullen looks him in the eye and smiles, wild and sure of _something_.

_This_ , Bull thinks.

He blacks out when he comes.

-

He feels Cullen’s hand on his cheek, and opens his eye to a very pleased partner.

“Can you tell me where you are?”

“With you.”

“Yes, that. But can you tell me where you are? You bashed your head against the headboard.”

“ _With you_ ,” Bull repeats, rubbing at the sore skin. “That’s the important part.”

Cullen presses his face to Bull’s damp throat and _laughs._

-

Bull believes.

Bull is believed in.

-

In the early morning, Bull stands beside Cullen on the battlements, staring out over the first gray-white glimpse of the landscape. Between them, the air is not warm, but Bull knows that will change if he closes the distance.

He catches himself chuckling softly, his breath escaping in a cloud. Cullen smiles, lips quirking roguishly, but he keeps his eyes on the horizon.

They are both here, both present.

Their shoulders hold strong and vital, bearing up against the weight of the sky.

**Author's Note:**

> The songs I listened to while writing this were:
> 
> \- They Move On Tracks of Never-Ending Light - This Will Destroy You  
> \- Numbers - Great Northern   
> \- Father King - Emancipator  
> \- Faded (Odesza Remix) - Zu  
> \- Maps - Emancipator  
> \- Underwander - Joey Fehrenbach  
> \- Wake Up - Anesthesia
> 
> Come say hello on tumblr, @ anabundanceofstilinskis.


End file.
